


Rivera & ...Rivera?

by SyffyLeafy



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Apparently this movie is so new you have to half-ass all the tags, DONT READ IF YOU HAVENT SEEN IT FOR CHURROS SAKE, Multi, Other, spoilers for the movie, srsly major plot reveal, what a first world problem eh?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-09 19:54:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12895533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyffyLeafy/pseuds/SyffyLeafy
Summary: Time passed.Héctor waited.And waited.For he knew that if he waited long enough it would be over in an instant.





	1. Life( Death) Expectancy

**Author's Note:**

> Héctor expects alot. Has been through alot, has seen alot. But the world isn't quite done with him yet.

As far as deaths went, Héctor had some expectations.

Decades spend in the slums had prepared him for the undeniable fate of his sorry existence. The Finale Death would come for his hide, sooner or later.

It hadn't started like that. No, the first year, he'd had _hope_.

Hope that Ernesto would contact his family, tell her of his ...rather mediocre demise, for all the favors Héctor had paid forward. His amigo would do the right thing.

Hope that Imelda would mourn, but also honor his death among their relatives.

Hope that his Coco would grow up to be as beautiful and smart as her Mamá, loving a memory but to never forget his love.

Hope that come day of the dead, he would see them again.

Every year he had tried, every Día de Muertos he concocted schemes and plans to cross the bridge back into the Land of the Living.

And every year it was the same.

_‘Oh! It seems your photo isn’t up yet, I’m sure if you wait awhile your familia…’_

_‘Well, it’s not too late to put your photo up…’_

_‘Lo siento Señor Rivera, there’s nothing I can do....’_

_‘Hola Héctor, I’m certain this year your familia will…'_

_‘No photo on the ofrenda, no crossing the bridge.’_

_‘No photo’_

_‘No photo’_

_‘No photo’_

_‘_ No _ **Photo.**_

It was pathetic to still feel even a pinch of faith, even if his whole existence summed up his worth in as many words. To not be allowed near his family even in death, to not be included in the thousands and _thousands_ of souls travelling to and from the Land of the Living. To not be gifted with a peek at his dear mija...

 It was worse than being forgotten, a slower and more painful death.

If the Rivera’s didn’t want nothing to do with him, that was alright.

But he had to see his mija.

Rather before she joined her familia on their side.

And now…now it wouldn’t matter if Miguel remembered him. A person’s memory was only so strong, but he had to admit the gordito had gumption.

The gold stopped flickering, and he could see it grow into a steady brightness behind his closed eyes.

This was is, this was the moment.

Somewhere above him, Héctor heard his wife whimpering a string of prayer. Imelda was not one for showing her gentleness, and it touched him that after everything she would allow him back into her heart.

Strange, he didn’t feel the cold shudders anymore. It had been a shock to feel cold again, even in death.

He wondered how long it took for his spirit to finally pass. It had looked like a moment with Chicharrón.

A breathe and a sigh, then gone forever.

He’d had to give to his little polito, to hold him for so long. To remember him for so long after everything…At least he would pass knowing the truth now.

It would soften the hurt he’d caused. Héctor knew Imelda would impart to Coco that, that he was sorry…

Time passed.

Héctor waited.

And waited.

For he knew that if he waited long enough it would be over in an instant.

It was futile to hold on when the claws of Fate was tearing you into Oblivion. Some fought, some cried, some made peace.

The second his Coco’s mind forgot him completely, he should stop existing.

…any moment now...

“…Héctor..?”

Imelda! Oh how he loved her so. She had a queer quiver in her voice, fingers tracing the etchings on his cheekbone.

“Héctor…?”

Surely he should be dust by now.

“Héctor.”

There was a numbing in his hands, this was it!

“Héctor, open your eyes, mi vida.”

Héctor opened his eyes.

And knew as soon as he locked eyes with his wife that his luck had won out for the first time in half a century.

“She _remembers_.”

-

There had been many things Héctor expected in Death.

There had been a fair few of them in his living days too, but his untimely and unjustly death had put a damper on those items like a stiff breeze to a candelabra.

But tonight was full of surprises.

He hadn’t expected to be pulled to a stand by his suspenders. To be enveloped in a rib crushing embrace by his family members. The babble of their voices apologizing, congratulating, forgiving.

They graced him with as much warmth as they had Miguel. Héctor felt his eyes prickle when Rosita promised start to understand, the twins to support him, for Julio to gain his blessing, Victoria's forgiveness even...

Standing outside of the close circle her familia made around her husband, Imelda stooped to grab something from the ground. A lone eyeball spotted the familiar equipment with confusion and a touch of fear.

But instead of clobbering him with it over the skull, she disappeared from view behind the curtains.

"Im-Imelda! - Wait- mi amor,-"

With his trademark shamble Héctor followed, backing into one of the twins -either Felipe or Oscar- when a roar of screams erupted as they broke away from the curtains.

Blinking from the sudden bright lights he missed the echoing words that sounded a lot like Imelda.

“Wha-what’s going on?”

“Well, my guess is,-“-“That someone is doing the  _right_ thing..."

"Imelda.”

And there she stood, less hesitant than a few minutes before.

Héctor could only see her silhouette, but the canopy of shouts died down. Unable to see her, he could hear her voice resonating from the speakers.

“…Mis queridos amigos y familia, I wish to thank you for your patience...and in uncovering the true culprit of the curse mi familia has endured for so long...-"

And then, the hands that supported him were now _restraining_ him. Héctor had never been much of a fighter, but he was agile and fast, which often gave him the upper hand in bar brawls and the odd fight that occurred in the Land of the Dead. The quicker you fell apart and came back together was oft a plus too. It wasn't enough that she had rejected him over the centuries, was it? Now she had to out his misdeeds to a whole stadium of that cabrón Ernesto's fans...?!

 "And his name was Ernesto de La Cruz."

The audience rose in deafening sound; booing and throwing a nice variety of not so nice nicknames and insults. Some he knew, and some he wished he knew.

This time he held onto the hands that grappled him; because if he didn't Héctor would fall to pieces from laughter alone.

A few ribs might've clattered to the ground, much to his embarrassment.

"As you now know, Ernesto de La Cruz had murdered the true artist behind his fame; my Husband...su nombre is Héctor...”

The spotlights swiveled onto him. The crowds could have blown out his eardrums with their noise.

"Héctor Rivera."

“ _Dios_.”

Prompted by his family, he shuffled down the rest of the walkway. The lights were dazzling. The thousands of skeletons clapping, cheering, using their best grito's to salute him.

It was overwhelming, too much for a simple soul like his.

Somewhere along the blinding lights, Imelda's announcement of his relation to her, and his timid wave to the (His?) adoring crowd; he stood beside his wife.

His _wife_.

It all felt like a dream. A drunken daydream that his poor mind concocted to pass yet another unsuccessful Day of the Dead. He’d had plenty of those, that was certain.

But he’d most certainly hadn’t expected to be tugged down to receive a brief kiss from his wife.

To the even louder noise of the audience Imelda released him just as quickly, marching away with a determination he knew well.


	2. Sorry is the hardest (strongest) word.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spit it out, choke on it, stutter it. Whatever you do, just say you're sorry.

Dawn had broken over the Land of the dead.

Días de los Muertos was over; the spirits of the dead had returned to their resting place and been well stocked with fresh glimpses of their living relatives and an abundances of offerings.

Even without being there to see it happen Héctor knew that Marigold Bridge would cease to exist after every soul had crossed it back into the land of the dead.

For many of its occupants, the festivities had ended.

And Héctor was still alive.

Well as alive as a skeleton could get.

The dead did not sleep. In truth, Héctor thought it was a lovely thing to partake in. To have a few hours of rest, to lie down and close your eyes, drifting off into unconsciousness and to wake up refreshed...

Yeah, that would be nice.

A sharp shout punctuated the air then, too garbled for him to make out. Afterwards there were softer but no less top-of-the-lungs exclamations that reverberated through the air and made him hunch his shoulders up to his temples.

Death had done little to soften his fiery and fierce _reina_. And Héctor was all too happy to let her explain the details of tonight’s events to a couple of officials that turned up at the Sunrise Spectacular show.

Around the same time a handful of deceased attorney men and women did and started clamoring amongst themselves to give him their various business cards.

'For when the time comes' they'd whispered, trading looks that spoke of either a terrific or terrible outcome.

Tucking the tiny pieces of paper under a plate of pan dulce for the moment, he insisted to the sheepish security that he was fine to sit on one of the sofas.

It didn't occur to him to mention that he knew them all by name.

After waving away another assistant with a tray of drinks - he was too jittery to start thinking of alcohol- Héctor folded and refolded the hands on his lap for want to fidget.

Years of waiting in line at the Dept. Of Family Reunions didn't make a dent in the anxiety he felt crawling up his ribs.

 _'Maybe'_ His mind whimpered, the icy fingers of dread creeping in.

Maybe.

Maybe this was all just a mistake.

Maybe he should just go back to being alone.

To go back to Shantytown; where he was without ofrenda or family but never without company that _understood_ why he was so glum; why he sometimes didn't talk, why he sometimes talked _too much_.

Maybe he should just find a patch of loose earth and bury his head so deep that Imelda couldn't find it, put it back on his shoulders, and knock it off when she was finally finished with the officers.

A quick glance at the seemingly headless Julio, he figured he wasn't the only one affected.

Rolling his eyes back to his hands Héctor turned them over with a start; - the fine scratches and half patched cracks- were gone.

Coco remembered him.

Miguel had done it; he'd managed to save his great-great-grand-father's memory. But the longer Héctor stared at his hands, the more he realized there was more to it.

His little girl didn't just remember him; she was passing on his _story_.

He could tell by the way his joints felt stiffer, the attachments (however magical) less sloppy.

In the years it had a been a gradual falling apart; bones yellowing and grinding against each other, some actually breaking and refusing to be set. And they said duct tape fixed everything!

"Ah...señor Rivera?"

A guard had come up to him, his sunglasses folded into the lapel of his suit. Héctor recalled giving the man a lucky punch that broke one of the lenses; lucky because the man had walloped his ribcage off as he'd landed it.

"I ah, me and the guys just wanted to..." Glancing over his shoulder, the man's companion spoke up.

"We kinda feel like a bunch of burros for tossin' you and the kid earlier..."

"We was just following orders, yanno."

"Not that that's any excuse, I mean Ernesto tells us to do stuff pretty whenever..."

"Guys, guys! I appreciate that you're...apologizing? But, I’m not sure this is the time..."

As he stammered Imelda had turned around enough to put him back into her vision; she'd crossed her arms and was tapping her foot. While her eyes were set upon the policewoman taking her statement, he knew her focus was on him by the short glances she shot at him.

Retreating a little further into the sofa, Héctor gulped out that the security was only doing their job, hadn't known better, and were frankly better off not mentioning anything further incriminating.

"No really, we're...-lo siento mucho-, really sorry, and if we can do _anything._ ”

"Really muchachos, it’s no problem..."

"¡Si!We can testify against de la Cruz."

"You won't believe the dirt we got on this guy,-"

"Discúlpeme señores."

Both the policewoman and his wife had joined the gathering of security around the by-now-recognized musician. To his surprise, one of them took a stand directly in front of him. Héctor had seen the pose many times, for all the years he tried to approach his lifelong (but shortlived) amigo to beg for help, - just not while he was the one who got protected against scum from the Shanty.

  
"I'd like to talk to Señor Rivera," The agent bit out, while Imelda walked around to get back to her husband. If the bouncer hadn't stopped her by putting a hand up she would've moved _through_ him.

“Not so fast, señorita; are you related?"

“Yes, he is my husband. If you _idiota_ have paid _any_ attention… “

“Cálmese, ma’am, you could’ve been saying that stuff to get close…”

Héctor saw Imelda scoff, lean down and with a practiced and perfected motion pull off her left boot.

However, instead of knocking the poor man's head on its axes she shook it over her hand. With a gentle clink, two tiny items fell into the palm of her hand.

"We're married." She proclaimed drolly, but she might as well have shrieked the phrase to the heavens in righteous joy for the way his non-existent heart leaped.

In her porcelain hands lay two old wedding bands.

"H-how did,-" Standing he barely noticed the guard dropping his act of being an immoveable object; it was like brushing away a spiders web. Cupping her lovely, delicate white hands in his own Héctor marveled at the simple little things; biting back a wince at the state of his ugly yellow bones against her loveliness.

"I have Coco to thank for it...I couldn't bare being without it. Even in death."

Struck by the echo of pain, - _"I don't want to have anything to do with you! Not in life, not in Death"-_ Héctor swallowed through his anguish and whispered;

" Mien...Mientras vivamos, y m-más a, ah-allá ” The words didn’t get past him, trembling as he stared into her eyes. Wishing, _hoping_...

Unabashed by the tears surely gathering at his eyes, his wife continued with her voice strong and full of warmth he hadn't felt in _decades_.

"Y más allá del sudario de la muerte,-"

With their hands entangled, forcing the audience to the backs of their minds, husband and wife finished their vows in synch.

"Seremos eternos en espíritu y amor..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goggle translate is your friend. In my case, it's the best cheatsheet I've had. Also, don't forget to comment if you'd like to see more/any specifics! Us lowly writers live off commetns and kudos, it;s our water and bread!


	3. Spinning like a top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OF, THANKYOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE. I've been without relieable internet for a good two weeks, and only had sparingly ok wifi on my phone. I'm also kind of impressed that so many people like?My writing? and are interested in reading more? It baffles the mind, yo.

Imelda was a proud woman.

She'd always been very proud; proud of her mother and father for raising her and her brothers to fear only God. Proud to have learned how to protect their family, through rigorous belief rather than violence.

Proud to be considered "too headstrong" for most of the likes of Santa Cecilia’s male populace.

Proud to have dragged her family out of the clutches of poverty by sheer determination and diligence alone.

So, Imelda was a proud woman...one that didn't deal well when her pride cost her her heart so dearly. 

"Julio, go see if there is any way out of this rat's nest."

"Rosita, Victoria, get me as many tapes of tonight’s show; I have a feeling we'll want to keep evidence close at hand."

"Oscar? Felipe? Get these men away from us; I can’t breathe with them skulking around me."

-"Sí mamá Imelda" -

-"Of course Mamá Imelda, " - " Sí mamacita"

-"We’ll take care of ém, - "-"Don't worry hermana."

The role of matriarch was a heavy, comforting weight. She decided what they did, be it orders for new shoes, outings, spending money. It was easy to take on that responsibility, even for a moment. But after watching her hermano's wrestle the security to a far corner, asking just the right sort of questions to find out exactly what sort of 'dirt' they had found out in the years in service to de la Cruz-, she was left alone with her husband once more.

Her husband.

It had been 90 years since she allowed herself to even think the title. Let alone think of him in anything but unpleasant terms.  
Silence strecthed the longer she avoided speaking. Not trusting her mouth to do as she said; she had no more cutting words left.

Experience told her to march away without a care, to turn her back on the love of her life for his mistake, for his folly, for his _dream_.

Knowledge said to not repeat the tragic history that had befallen her; to not repeat the same mistake that had cursed them to opposite ends of the world. 

Over the years she had shouted and cursed him out, had turned him away, had seethed in fury whenever his countenance came back the next day, and the next, and the next.

Instead of demanding answers Imelda had let go of his memory and her ties to him. It was not an easy thing to realize that she had been wrong to do so.

Miguel had said as much, but his words had been like Imelda and Hector's had twisted around, "Family should support each other."

He had left their family behind. Abandoning his daughter and wife to make their own income once the monthly letters ceased bringing in enough to make pan dulce.

She had left _him_ behind. Forcing the man to the very outermost corner in her mind to stay, envisioning a mere skeleton framework of memory, fading and dusty.

For all her threats and curses; she never meant to cost him his life.

Even in Death, that was a punishment only meant for the truly evil. Her husband had been anything but; ungainly, all knees and elbows, all barely believable lies and the endless infuriating mockery.

And completely filled with love. It radiated from him, shining in his eyes or cracking in his voice; Hector Rivera had loved life so fully it was only death that was able to stop him.

Hector had deserved a thrashing so extreme the cats in the streets would join his painful yowling. Her husband deserved to eat nothing but the iron lashing from her mouth and the cold glares she would spare him.

But he didn't deserve to suffer.

Fierce in her hatred of him Imelda was fierce in her loving too. It was a possessive, alien thing. Consuming her until the very marrow of her bones still hummed with it even in death.

Even now, a she clutched his hand in hers, a bone splintering strength; she loved him more than she hated him.

"Mi amor,-i don't mean to,-ay-y-y-yai!, mi mano!-"

Startled out of her memory she released his hand in a flurry, crowding back in a second to appraise the misaligned digits. Slowly, with the aid of his other non-dominant hand, Hector popped them back into place.

"Tch, tch, tch "Hector hissed,

"I...I am sorry, Hector...-" she began, reaching out and balling her fist before she could touch him again.

"Ah! Don't worry, - it's not happened for the first time and not likely to be the last- Hey, it's okay, it's- I'm used to it, carino. There's no ‘not’ getting used to it, not when you're as fast as me! Eh...?"

Her expression must have morphed into the terrifying concern she felt. He'd always been so apt at reading through her stony facade.

The white hot guilt pooled up underneath her cheekbones as she realized that his whole condition was in part to her.

"I ...I should have listened. Mi querido..."

"It's not your fault, mi amor."

"I _should’ve_ been more forgiving. Mi mamá _always_ said that my pride would kill, -”

"Imelda, please."

It was his tone that stopped her short, but his hand had fallen in place on her shoulder, caressing the exposed neck vertebrae in a way that sparked _memories_ so sweet she was overwhelmed.

"I-I don’t...this isn't the time and place. Not _now_ at least."

He murmured, casting a glance around the room and its many listening skulls.

"Sí, you're right..." Interrupting their quiet moment Julio rattled to a halt, gasping from his brief sprint to the exit. His re-appearance alerted her brothers, who made another inaudible comment to the security before joining them.

"Mamá Imelda? I think its best we get out of here."

"Sí, maybe if we try the back entrence, -" Felipe mused, "-we won't get followed by all them locos outside." Oscar finished, jerking his chin to the main entrance, where even now there was a muted roar of voices.

No doubt wanting answers from the very victims of Ernesto's century long fraud.

Recalling the utter maze of hallways and backstage rooms they had found once Frida had snuck them in Imelda shifted and tapped a non-sense beat with her boot.

From one of the staircases Rosita and Victoria came bearing twin boxes filled with enough footage to spare. The latter took a breath to explain, but glanced off and snapped loud enough to startle everyone.

"And where do you think you're slinking off to?" Victoria was able to mimic her grandmother's icy tone, and she used it now. While occupied with their arrival Hector had chosen that moment to sneak away. Imelda whirled her head around before her body knew it and followed.

"...ay...well, there's this thing I need to....there was this guitar that I sort of owe to this muchacho..."

Even in death, Imelda could melt a person’s face off with nothing but a glare. And yet to Héctor, the smoldering amethyst of her eyes only set his heart ablaze.

Grateful that he had no flesh that would betray his furious blushing, Héctor let out a nervous titter, knees clacking together in the silence.

Rosita clapped him on the shoulder, giggling when his torso collapsed in on itself, scattering backbones on the floor like candy from a piñata.

"Don't be silly, papacito, you're family."

"And as such, you're going home." Felipe informed, cheerfully gathering the stray vertebrae.

"...-with us." his twin finished, hefting Héctor by the shoulders to make space between his neck and tailbone. Over the sound of his spine reattaching itself, Hector stuttered in reply,-

"H-home?"


	4. Home is where the Hearth (Heart) Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of cheated with this one, I had it ready way sooner than I expected. Well, that's being wifi-less for ya. You get 'round. ALSO, IM KIND OF STILL REALLY HAPPY PEOPLE ARE ENJOYING THIS AS MUCH AS I AM ENJOYING WRITING IT. YALL THE BEST. DON'T HESITATE TO SHOUT AT ME MORE, I NEED THE MOTIVATION. Enjoy ~`

Over the years he’d seen the hacienda the Rivera’s had erected in their place in the Land of the Dead. A spiraling business from the looks of it; even in death many would always have a need for new shoes.

Retirement wasn’t so much a concept as it was a hobby for the dead; why stop doing what you lived for when you’ve stopped being alive?Well, aside from himself. He'd sworn off music pretty early on. Maybe a ballad here and there for scraps of someone's ofrenda, or solo acts like for Chicharrón...And after the odd jobs, he'd return to his niche among the Forgotten at the bottom of the grand pyramids.If he was honest, Héctor found its melancholy atmosphere and stench of the desperate and drunk preferable to the parallel of his old homestead with Imelda.

Alright, so maybe that was a lie. It got cold down there, without the warmth of people and the lights.

It had been some time since he'd last visited the ever-expanding Rivera's Zapateros house. Well, that was also a lie. Two days before Dias de los Muertos he'd "accidentally" lost his way going back and forth betweeen Ceci's workroom and his shack and just so _happened_ to be in the same neighborehood.Knowing how busy Imelda and her familia would be this close to the holiday, he thought a visit wouldn't hurt. It had; Héctor was certain his limp yesterday had been testimony to that.

But Héctor knew the villa like the bones in his hands; from the spiraling chimney's to the cobble-stoned paths in the main courtyard. He also knew the way one should climb to a window where Imelda passed on her way to her workroom each night.

He was particularly familiar with its sloping tiled roof, one of the reasons his shin had broken was an unfortunate fall from its treacherous surface. Hector blamed the fact that Pepita, Imelda's fiery spirit guardian, had been napping on the archway that he used to climb to the matriarch’s room.

Needless to say he'd been evicted many times...but none so ferociously. From the looks of it no new levels or stories had appeared. Because of the nature of this world, it was a never stopping scene of construction. In 96 years dead he'd seen more buildings be erected that he had in his measly 22 years living. He'd helped out in some, using his loose boned skills to get to difficult places and lend a hand (sometimes literally)

So here he stood, at the impossible entrance of the family- _his_ , his family’s home.

_Home._

Home was a shack.

Well, to call it a shack was generous. 'Home' for Hector had been three things. The first had been the orphanage in St. Cecilia; where the sisters _tried,_ bless their hearts, to create a loving, caring environment for him and dozens upon dozens of his various primo's and prima's who ended up in the same place. It was overcrowded, too little to go around for too many mouths and too many small bodies that needed to grow. He could still recall the feeling of his toes poking out worn down zapateroes, of the scratchy fabric on a shirt washed and cleaned and passed down for years.

' _Y_ _ou're skinny, like a scarecrow' ,_ Was a phrase that was uttered by half the town whenever they went to the park, to the church or even if he had turned a corner after escaping the monja's hawk-like gaze.

To the taunting voices of adopted sisters, brothers and cousins, - _Es_ _pantapájaros! Espantapájaros! Espantapájaros!_ \- , Hector had shouted back even louder; - _Entonces soy el espantapájaros **más** guapo_!-, _grito'_ d like a bird, unerring in his glee as he used his skinny bones to sneak through fences, sling slotting into trees with his arms and legs like the monkeys in the great American zoos. 

His second home had been after he'd married.

A small stuccadored hacienda, with the kitchen window's facing the street, but with a courtyard large enough to have been the centre of the best fiestas and weddings and get-togethers. For the size of their outside, the inner walls were as private as the inside of a seashell. The few rooms were used to their extend, a washing closet, pantry, even a little nook for Imelda to do her sewing on days where she couldn't sit outside in the sun. His daughter even had her _own_ room, a thing he sometimes envied for his child self. 

It was their little paradise; it was _home_.

It had been the home he'd yearned to return to, after the countless hotels, the inns, the rooms all blurring together into one long nightmare of misplacement. The only relief he had was to dream about coming back.

When he woke up dead, it was like the orphanage; gone in a blaze.

The shack, like all the ones in Shantytown, was previously owned by somebody. Like the previous neighbors, Hector didn't anticipate staying there as long as he had. A place to put his hide when he rested, a corner for whatever possesions he found. It was the last place he found any resemblance of 'welcome' in. And it wasn't asif there was a housing system in place for those without existing houses. Folk usually ended up with their families. Orphaned spirits didn't last long, so why offer a place for them to take up space in? Even in those early years, without a photo or a family...there was no rock big enough to dent that wall of prejudice.

The walls were holey; the floor's creaked as much as his bones. All cast in shadow, except for the times he had enough to buy candles, using a piece of charcoal to write. Plans, schematics’, elaborate means of escape...No lyrics or anything to do with music.

Any day now, his family would find him, welcome him, take him in...

For all his youth, he was the oldest 'Forgotten' soul around. It had earned him a reputation of sorts; Forgotten in the Living world, but the longest existing one out of the lot of them.So out of all the huts, his had been the 'fanciest' around for miles. But it was still a hole in the ground compared to the residents he'd seen above the pyramids.It was nothing compared to the fame Ernesto had grasped so firmly in both worlds, but it was something.But hell if he'd had as big a following when he was alive as he did now...

Needless to say his completion would have benefitted greatly.

“You coming in or going to stand there collecting dust?”

_I'd sooner become dust than ever stepping back into that poor excuse of a shack'_ Héctor shuddered; a feeling unlike someone walking over his grave crawling up his neck. Recalling the events surrounding his death, it wasn't too hard to imagine _why.  
_ To Imelda, he quiped; “Ay, no, de nada I... I was looking for a rug to wipe my feet…”

Even if they only let him sleep in the storage shed, he'd rather never go back. It wasn't the house where his wife had leant out of the window to smack his cheek, then kissed it when he proffered it again. It wasn't the home where he'd crouched for an _hour_ on the cobblestones, his knees too boney and too soon aching with pain as his daughter learned how to walk for the first time.

It wasn't the home he promised to return to...but it was Home. Even if Hector hadn't been welcome for over seventy years, there was nothing waiting for him at the shack.

Glancing down at his unadorned feet Imelda scoffed with derision muttering something that sounded like ' _at least he hasn't forgotten his manners_ ' before she flung an old rag at his chest that smelled strongly of shoe-shine. Héctor took the rag and took one shin in hand to start to polish the heel, hopping in place to keep standing.

“Gracias, mi amor."

“Hmm.”


	5. No rest for the wickedly abused.

Oscar and Felipe were concerned.

She could tell; there wasn't a feeling as familiar as the twin stares boring into her back. They watched from the sidelines, overprotective of their big sister; watching like they had when Héctor first started to court her. Knowing that Imelda didn't really need their protection as much as Héctor needed someone to offer an escape or opening; she could be more terrifying than their mamá and papá combined.  
But it was still there; that brotherly, annoying and overbearing nature to help and support.

And out of everyone in her family; Oscar and Felipe had known Hector since childhood.Had known him as the thin, eager boy hiding behind corners, ducking behind bushes, and generally getting up in trees for a glimpse of their sister.If memory served they had helped him _into_ a few trees as well, to hide from their mama and papa...

"I can't believe he's here!"Rosita squeaked, clasping her hands to her bosom in excitement.

"Si, he's here..."Julio echoed, his usual jittery tone somber.

"Of course he is; we _just_ marched him over the threshold, - " His daughter interjected, unflappable as ever. There was a new wrinkle in her brows as she did, a glimpse of worry she didn't like to feel, nor let others see.

"Oh hush, you know what I mean, m'ija, -”  
"No, I don't.” - "I mean he's _here_ here, you know, for so long he wasn't..."

"Rosita, we were all aware, - “Julio intervened, huffing when he was talked over again.They hadn't stopped their hushed arguing since coming home, trudging through the front door with the seventh Rivera in tow. Where first there had been deadly silence, stifling those trapped in it, there now was noise. At least they'd waited until the twins had frog marched their ...guest? Into one of the only spare rooms available.Maybe calling it a spare room was too generous. It was used to store whatever eccentric shoe designs her brothers created, pieces of furniture that needed mending, old knickknacks nobody found use in but felt too sentimental of to throw out. And rolls upon rolls of leather too old and tattered for anything but shoes.

They'd better cleared out said old junk before offering it to their cuñado...

Loud as the family got, - with their theories and speculations and general outbursts of joy and anticipation, - Imelda remained quiet. She turned away from the bickering, - but her eyes kept glancing off every so often. Towards the hallway, and that hallway led to the private section of their business. A thing her hermanos noticed.

It takes a second to catch each other’s eye and decide that something has to be done. In the din no-one notices twin pairs of tools being set down, and no-one remarks on the men standing from their seats. Separately they move around the table, like two planets revolving around a sun, meeting at a point at exactly the same time.

"You think he's asleep?-" Felipe starts, leaning against the sideboard.

"We don't sleep, stupido, - " Oscar scoffs; He takes a seat on the backless stools, talking over his sister as if she was air.

"Si, Sí, Sí, I know that, but if _I_ were him,-" Felipe gestures to himself.

"If you were _you_ any less than I were _me,"_ his brother responds; pointing a thumb at his own striped shirt and apron.

"How are we any different from him as we are each other?"

"Like heels and sandals’,"

"Boots and flats?"

"Chickens and cats,"

"That may be, and we may be _we_ ,-“

"But what of _him?_ " Both brothers hmm and haw over that; blissfully ignoring the steaming face of their sister.  
"I'd sleep if I were him," Oscar nods, seeming to agree. He raises a finger, as if to raise a point of importance.

"But if _I_ were him, I’d be too nervous,"

 "He's nervous? - “Oscar nods again, Felipe joins him, their heads bobbing in synch. Each sentence has the effect they intended; their sister has stopped her work completely, shoulders tensing and even the mimicry of her breathes has deepened.

 All this needs is a coup de gräce, ~

 "What would _Héctor_ be nervous about? Isn't this the same guy that got chased down,-"

 "-by señorita Grande for admitting she sung like a donkey that had a cold? ¡Si! It was the same day he managed to ask Imeldita to hold her hand,-"

 "-he didn't ask her, I remember him running down the street and just grabbing her because he hadn't learnt how to duck yet! And señorita Grande was wearing her tacones altos, remember? The one's she used to sharpen like a knife? She said it would "leave her mark" wherever she went..."

 "Ahh yes...hey maybe we should visit her again, I hear she's gotten quite popular at the cantina for her skills at darts." And both agreed that a visit would be permissible. So long as they finished work early, at least.  
"So you think he's nervous?"

"As he should be, but considering, -”

"The situation?" Imelda cut in, craning her neck to glare down at them. It rarely worked on them as well as it had when they were all alive, but it was enough to stop their insistent chatter. Oscar raised a brow at his twin; Felipe winked over her head.

Right into their palms.

"Si,"-"Si,"-

"I don't know, he...he's my _husband_." She cringes as she says it; the bitterness still at the ready. There a nugget under her ribcage shouting at her to let him stew on his regret, satisfied that his guilt still causes him grief. As it should! Decades of her own clamor for attention, demanding to be felt, demanding to find justice.As head as the family it was her deciding word that had the most power over the household; it was the respect she fought for, the reputation she carried with pride to ward off any sympathetic advances.To let all that go...it's not what she wants to feel; while at the moment there's little to do but feel. There are shoes to make; there will always be shoes to make and mend and _create_. But...she can't think of shoes when the only man she loved is _right_ there...

One of them grabs her shoulder, the other placing a quieting hand on her own.

  
"What's on your mind?-" ",-Tell us what's going on."

Their voices are soft, so unlike the quick brogue and switch they use daily, and maybe she lied when she said she's been protecting her family from Héctor's mistakes. Because as much as she tried to shelter them, to keep any memory of Héctor out of sight and mind, her hermanos were there when her own memories refused to go as easily. The nights, early on, were gruesome.

During the day she hid behind a business facade; demanding the old widowed zapatera to take her as apprentice, to teach her to _live_ as a shoemaker, to die as one. During the day she kept herself busy and too angry to feel saddened.

Then the night came, and she wasn't so angry.

Oscar and Felipe were her twin pillars of support throughout her life. And so her hermano's were aware of the utter chaos that battled inside her now. They were more than familiar with its presence; when the grief won out over the fury.

Imelda was a proud woman...sometimes.  
Looking up their faces, beseechingly, Imelda whispered, "How do I even start?" H _ow do I start to forgive him? How do I even ask_ him _to forgive_ **me?’**

The twins spared a look towards the other, - conversing in that silent, effortless manner gemelos always have, - and turned as mirror images back to her.

"-Speak to him," "-Speak to him,"

-

He couldn’t sleep.

  
Or better, he couldn’t sit still. He felt electrified. Kind of like the time he hijacked a trolley and tried to redirect it to go over the Cempasúchil Bridge. Even without a nose the scent of charred bone was awful and forever burned into his memory.

Was it like this for everyone? Did they just carry on with their lives after death, with being dead only a minor detail?

There was nothing but time ahead of him while he waited for the next Días de los Muertos. Like before, every failure had been only the start of a new plan, a new attempt. Now that that immediate danger was out of the picture, he had nothing. Nothing, but to wait. For the 365 days to pass. Or the day Coco forgot about him. Or the day Coco would die (what a depressing thought).  
And even if it were true that she was sharing his name, his tale his _memory_ with the rest of the family _(how did Miguel even manage that?)_ there was no telling if he would ever see her again. Least of all in the Living world.

Hector shook his head; sitting up from the aborted nap that he promised he would take.

Coco _remembered_ ; that was a good sign, no? It was great that she was carrying on his memory into the lives of Miguel and his family. And it was good news that even if he never saw his living family, his brave and charming m'jio (I'm a great-great-grandpa, _bisnieto_ Miguelito) again, Hector would exist. He just had to be patient; he'd see them again, one day...

  
He had _seas_ of time…

  
Tapping his fingers, Héctor groaned. What good were seas when he had no boat? No paddle? No steery-thingie?

So, how to kill time.

Before it had been all about planning; what new scheme to use to get past the guards and agents and their blinky thingy machines. (A devil box, Imelda had called them when he’d asked.)

Faced with new, unmotivated time to kill, Héctor was at a loss.

The bed was too soft; and Héctor was too wired with raw restored energy to even think of catching a few winks. For all his waning strength throughout the day he should be exhausted; the night's events still catching up in his mind. But he wasn't. Well, he was tired, - yes, but had there been a time when he hadn't been this bone-weary? (Pun not intended.)

Jiggling a leg he sat on the very edge of the bed, wringing his hands, plucking at stray threads in his trousers. Anything to starve off wanting to open the window and escape back to his former dwellings. To wander the streets with his "skeleton walk", or zombie shamble, however Miguel had titled it.

Maybe some fresh air would help.

He could write again. Or play some music. But Hector, although rejoining the Rivera name and family, had neither possessions nor resources to scratch that itch.

Héctor almost slapped himself upside the head;-the shack!

There was paper in his shack!

Better yet, Chicharrón’s guitar! Whatever happened to it after Miguel had run off? Had he dumped it someplace? Sold it? Traded it for something fancier, more expensive...?

Even as the thoughts rose,-along with it pure fatherly disappointment and disapproval, - Hector shook himself and muttered a curse at himself for not thinking rationally.

No, his grandson wouldn't have thrown it out. Maybe he lost it at De La Cruz's mansion? Past taking a  unplanned dive in the indoor pool (people have _pools_ inside their homes now apparently) Miguel admitted to not knowing what had befallen his oldest friend's instrument.

Knowing the formerly famous man's affinity to keep all his offerings close to home, it wouldn't be too farfetched to think he'd kept the guitar as a trophy after throwing them down the cenote. Much like how after his own death Ernesto had taken everything, that blasted, egotistical rat of a bast-,  
A knock on the door halted him.

Startled, he didn't think. “N-no estoy haciendo nada! - Err..."

Of course he wasn't 14 anymore. So there was no reason to feel guilty for sitting in the dark alone...thinking of jumping out a window to escape...

A scoff from the other side answered, "You better not be...can I come in?”

Imelda.

Jumping to his feet, Hector opened the door, glancing over her shoulder to see if she had been followed. Noticing the querying look she gave him, he pretended to check dramatically for stragglers, nudging her behind him before closing the door.

"Vamonos, vamonos...before they catch us." Choking on a laugh at his silliness Imelda shook off his hand, stepping into the room completely. Ah, at least they had put fresh linens on the bed and moved the bulk of boxes to one side.

“‘They’ being who?”

"The...ah, the sisters used to do random checks. There were _a lot_ of rules we had to follow, and a lot of commerce that wasn't allowed. No dirty pamphlets, or alcohol or...company..."

"I remember something like that...Old habits, no?" They laughed, quietly. It had been ages since he remembered the old days, the people. Hector wondered if she remembered her neighbors, the markets or the pastor even. He wondered how often Imelda reminisced.

"You ah...come here often?"

Eyeing the obviously not used bed, his wife hmm'd, picking off imaginary dust from her apron. She held a bundle of cloth in her arms, and began stroking away wrinkles that her tight grip had caused.

"You're right that’s, ah...not one of my best..." He chuckled, sighing when she didn't join him.

"I...really like what you've done to the place?"- Surroundings, pretty safe subject. "I got to admit that some places have more, ka-pow, or bling! And doing something crazy like all those spiraling towers...and you wouldn't believe oh, some people go _all_ out on holidays sometimes, like there's streamers and-and papier-mâché things, giant papel picado’s and Dios mío the _music_ just rattles right down to your feet,- " Back it up, back it up! "But-but! I like it here. Very, ah...very nice. Quiet, very peaceful. It feels like home. You know, I didn't get the chance to ask; how is it over,-over there? In the land of the Living? Is the fountain still there? Heheh, I can't remember how many times I tripped over that thing, think it’s safe to say I'm no less a torpe now than back then..." Whoa, nice save.

He didn't need to see her flat look of barely contained exasperation to know she wasn't interested in talking about the 'good ole' days.

This wasn't going anywhere.

A vein of frustration throbbed in his skull.

How many times did he have to tiptoe around her? How many times would she give him an inch only to take that away until he balanced on mere millimeters’ of her patience? Didn't she realize that he _knew_ he'd made a mistake? Hah, half the time she caught him in lies,-many less elaborate than he'd liked to admit-, but his honesty with her was never anything but genuine?  
His apology (and those before, all those years and _years_ ) had been sincere. He knew it wasn't her fault for breaking away from him, for wanting to rid herself of his annoying presence. He knew it was his mistake that cost them both so dearly, how his selfishness had a price tag.

Hector deserved her ire; he deserved every curse and filthy word flung his way. But he came back, - _Como él había prometido, maldito sea Dios!_ -he came _back_ and with the truth of his disappearance out he thought...

That she would listen.

Imelda had called him her _husband_. Had admitted being in relation to the poor, ragged ghost of a man he used to be. Had defended him in front of thousands of people.

And now...

Now she couldn't even stand the sight of him?

"...Please Imelda...I'm sorry alright? I've been sorry the day I _left_ , and I wanted to come home...I wanted to return to you can Coco so much...I should've never left. I know you hate me for that, and that's my penance, I understand...but, can't you look me in the eye? Per favor, my love..."

"You..."

He looked up, lost as he was in mind. Imelda was looking at him, _staring_ like she was really seeing him for the first time in 75 years.

"..Sí?"

"What are you _wearing?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry ( well maybe a little, but eh)

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE COMMENT I AM A LONELY GIRAFFE WAITING TO be told people actually like this movie already. C'mon its the 21th century, being nice is in ,yo.


End file.
